Seek Not To Alter Me
by Keaton A
Summary: A Jack McCoy/Claire Kincaid College AU.
1. I Hope We Don't Have A Problem

She'd sat in the back of his lectures for several weeks now, simultaneously hoping that he would and wouldn't notice her. Typically, she would have sat closer, but she had felt overwhelmed by his presence on the first day and sitting back some gave her a fuller, better perspective of her situation. He was awe-inspiring; he was also an ass. His lectures were more akin to sermons: he raised his voice the way a preacher would to God, but with respect to such odious things as capital punishment. Still, despite his volatile attitude, she was drawn to him; so drawn that sitting in the back of the class ached. She longed to sit in the front row, but no one sat there, out of fear for their lives and their eardrums. She would have gladly been front and center, would have vainly prided herself in being his only fan. But she resisted, too perplexed to take action — she didn't understand the nature of this attraction and wished it wasn't there. And yet, as she restrained herself, the unwanted obsession persisted, even blossomed — so fully that, on the day he called her name, searching for her face in the waves of frightened listeners, her heart nearly stopped and her voice came out nearly inaudible as she replied with a meek "yes?"

He asked her to stay after class. From her spot, she nodded quickly and averted her eyes, as well as ignored Margot's taunting whispers and giggles.

From that moment on, class was too short. It had never been too long, truly; his preaching filled the three hour lecture period with ups and downs, laughs and gasps that, although they never made the time fly by, certainly improved what could have been tortuous. But on that day, the time did fly. It brushed past her face, feeling like a wind, left her reeling as the listeners scrambled out of their seats after being dismissed. She stayed in her seat for a second, glancing nervously around the empty lecture hall, and at Dr. McCoy, leaning coyly against his desk at the front, waiting for her patiently with a smirk on his face.

She fumbled for her things, pulling her bag up to her lap and shoving her unopened book inside. Standing quickly, and glancing at him again, still poised, still waiting, she became aware of herself and how stupid she might look. Forcefully, she paced herself, slowly making her way down the stairs, until she stood by the first chair in the first row. She looked up at him, morosely, and his lips widened into an amused smile.

"Claire Kincaid," he said, now grinning.

"Dr. McCoy," she replied blankly.

"Call me Jack," he said nonchalantly, and Claire was completely taken aback, by his casualty, and by the level of discomfort she felt talking to him — by the idea of calling her professor "Jack."

"Jack." She tried the name, tongue feeling heavy, twisting about, tangled in the word. She bit her cheek, not sure what to make of it. It was an odd feeling: uncomfortable, but good. Yes. Good. She decided the feeling was, in the strangest way possible, good.

"I checked with the administration, Claire," he said. He was turned away from her now, rummaging among the piles of paper on his desk. "They said you weren't taken."

"Excuse me?" Claire had no idea what he meant by that. Her discomfort was rapidly growing. Her cheeks were hot and she had no doubt that they had taken on a shade of pink he would notice. His every movement, every word embarrassed her to the core; she found breathing awfully difficult in such proximity to him. She could hardly see through her cloud of anxiety and excitement but she could tell he still wasn't facing her. Perhaps there is some grace left in the world, she thought.

"I talked to Adam Schiff — you know," he continued, totally ignoring her physical presence, only caring that she was still able to hear him. "The department chair of criminal justice — he said you weren't taken."

"I..." She was speechless and confused, "I don't — excuse me?"

This time he turned to her and eyed her sternly, examining her fully in a way that was less than appropriate. He relaxed his gaze. "As an assistant, Ms. Kincaid?"

Ms. Kincaid. He'd called her Claire only moments earlier and now she was Ms. Kincaid. She suspected this would be a trend — and immediately hoped that it wouldn't be.

But what else he had said — assistant? As in teaching assistant? She wanted to scoff, laugh in his face, giggle as she told him that he was capable enough on his own, that he needed no teaching assistant. And it was true. He was a force, an immovable, amazing force, that needed no compass, nor any push in the right direction. And yet he was asking, of all people, her. The girl that sat in the back of his lectures and had never raised her hand to answer a question and had never been called on. She realized too late that she was gaping. She opened her mouth to speak — but he was quicker.

"I requested you," he announced, turning his back on her again. "Immediately, of course. Your reputation precedes you."

"As does yours... Including your relationships with your assistants," she blurted out stupidly. Her mouth rested open in shock at herself for a few seconds before she snapped it shut, looking down, utterly terrified. She was not supposed to know about that, though she did, and she was certainly not supposed to mention it to him. Ever. It was a plea from the administration, always coded brilliantly in a formal letter to the students: Dear students, You may become aware of some past (much emphasis on the past) improper student-teacher conduct here at Columbia Law School. Please, given what you have learned and will continue to learn about morality and ethics, forgive such parties for their indiscretions and please save everyone from certain embarrassment by suspending belief of any rumors that may arise. We also ask that you refrain from mentioning such affairs in classroom settings, with professors or with fellow students. Thank you in advance. Sincerely, Dr. Pataki, President of Columbia Law School. Having broken a promise to the elusive and illustrious Dr. Pataki gave Claire no grief, but Jack's potential reaction stirred an awful sense of dread within her.

Glancing up briefly from the floor, she saw his head shoot up and saw him turn his eyes. She felt them, bearing directly into her soul, as Jack straightened himself up and turned his body completely towards her. His arms hung harmlessly by his sides, but his eyes were searing with contempt and indignation. He stared into her deep golden eyes until they were forced away, glistening with shame and quivering with fear.

"Three," he stated blankly but forcefully, "in the last twenty years at this school, and that includes an ex-wife." He stared at her a moment longer and then broke away, going behind his desk to sit in his chair. Reaching down, he pulled up a stack of papers and dropped them on his desk, looking up at her. "I hope we don't have a problem."

"I..." She struggled for an explanation for her outburst. "I just wanted to make myself clear." Yes. That sounded right. And it was true. She was drawn to Dr. McCoy — Jack — but she didn't want him like that. She was intrigued by his character, thought he would make for a good argument. He seemed exciting, interesting; he embodied the things that were missing from the mundane atmosphere of law school. He was far more interesting than any rule on perpetuities, more resourceful than twenty trips to the library, and certainly more amusing than any instructional seminar on jury selection that she had taken with thirteen boring public attorney interns.

"Got it," he replied, staring down at his pile of papers rather disgustedly. Then, pausing briefly, he glanced up and smile at her, a genuine, honest smile. She felt something inside of her drop and unconsciously smiled back. "Claire?" What a relief. She was Claire again. "Can we get to work?"

"Now?"

He exhaled heavily, looking tempted to roll his eyes. "Tomorrow." He stopped abruptly, rubbing his chin pensively. "What hours work for you, Claire?" It felt as though he was relishing using her name, as if he'd waited through those first few weeks of the seminar to be able to say it. There was something about the way he liked her that made her uneasy, but that thrilled her all the same. Suddenly, she was all Jack saw. It was a daunting feeling, to be alone with him, to be the only thing he seemed to notice, and yet that he constantly ignored. He was caught up in his papers and caught up in her at the same time. She enjoyed it, the alternating attention and dismissal. He paid her just enough mind that she knew she mattered, but not enough to overemphasize her importance and relevance. "Claire?" He also had a habit of unintentionally distracting her from the present, sending her into a frenzy of thoughts and analyses. That was a side effect of him that did not sit well with her.

"Most of my lectures and classes are Tuesday and Thursday," she answered haltingly. "Um, all before your class. Except I have one lecture Wednesday morning, early though, at nine." She took a deep breath. "I can't stay today, I — "

"No, no, not today," he said dismissively, shuffling through his papers. "So, Mondays, Wednesdays afternoons, and Fridays — all work for you?"

"Yes, and — and Tuesdays and Thursdays, after this seminar, I suppose," she conceded. "And weekends." She had no intention of spending the weekends with him. Or maybe she did. She would, if he asked her to. Her unexpected willingness frightened her and she pleaded that her common sense would eventually prevail.

He laughed at that. "Oh, come on, Claire, you've got to have a social life."

"I have to make it through law school too," she suggested meekly. A terrible excuse. They both knew it. Thankfully, he had the decorum not to point it out.

"Claire, you're doing fine," he chided. "That's why I requested you. You're doing well. Extremely well." He was waving her off with his words. He was winning, too. And right. About everything. How annoying, that self-assurance that he exuded. He unconsciously purported that he knew her better than she knew herself and she was growing to trust and believe in that — suddenly, her anxiety started up again and her heart rate increased rapidly. She was already finding their relationship unhealthy even in its most innocent state.

"Thank you," she said stupidly. No other words existed within her at that moment. She hated that too, that he made her speechless so effortlessly, that his simple gait, his pure aura, gave her goosebumps and rendered her senseless. Jack raised his eyebrows at her. She hoped that he thought she had a social issue and was unaware of his effect on her. He opened his mouth slightly, almost as if to speak, then nodded slowly and slumped down, resting his chin in the palm of his hand. He flipped the first page of the first paper on his desk and started reading. He looked so different like that, much more approachable. Courage soared through her so violently that her fingertips trembled. "What will I — we — be doing together?"

"The usual," he sighed, looking up and rubbing his face with his hands. "Grading. Planning lectures. Research. "

"Research?"

"Yes, research. For lectures. For articles. Law review submissions and journals." He thought for a moment. "Next semester, I'm teaching a prosecutorial seminar. Preparation for students wanting to go into public law. I heard that you're a clerk with Judge Joel Thayer? Criminal court, I believe?" As he spoke, he pushed himself up out of his chair and wandered, somewhat aimlessly, over to her side.

"Yes, criminal. I was," she replied quickly. "I quit."

"Why?"

"He and I didn't quite have the same opinions," she said calmly, trying desperately not to flinch. It was more than that, much more than that, and something much deeper, much worse than that. But, in the end, it could be described as a sort of conflict of opinions — so that was what she went with.

Jack eyed her carefully, possibly detecting a hint of discomfort in her poise and her voice. However, if he understood her demeanor, he made no comment on it; he pretended instead that nothing that occurred. "Well, regardless of that, I'd like you to take my seminar. I understand you still plan on pursuing criminal law?" She nodded. "I'd like if you continued on as my assistant through that course — it'll be a seminar on proper prosecutorial skills and conduct. You could certainly learn a lot from it. I've thought about doing independent investigations into current cases and presenting prosecutorial angles and their shifts... Of course, I'll need a great deal of help with that."

"Will you have time for that? It seems like a good deal of extensive research."

"I only teach one seminar or lecture a semester, it's hardly a concern."

"Well, it's an interesting course," she quipped, looking away from Jack, still shaking slightly from the mention of her experience in the judge's court. "An interesting approach."

She could sense him grinning beside her. "That's what I'm counting on." He strolled away from her, back to his desk, and plopped down in his chair once more. She turned her head, gazed at him, sorting sloppily through his desk drawers, and tried not to laugh. He was so odd. She could feel herself relaxing with him already; though she was still forced to ride the waves that he controlled with his volatile personality, they were beginning to calm underneath her. The riptide was subsiding, and she was finding the sandbar to stand on. His mood was becoming more intelligible, more unmoving to her. She was certain there would be days she'd be dashed against the sharp rocks of their partnership by his persona, but there would also be times she would float and enjoy the current of his mind. His appeal was growing always and she felt her heart rate speed up again, but for a different reason.

"I have to go," she announced finally, after a good minute of silence. He nodded at her, not looking up, not speaking. Claire adjusted her bag, murmured a quick "goodbye" and started quickly up the lecture hall stairs. When she reached the top, she heard her name called behind her and turned, seeing him sitting there, looking up at her.

"See you tomorrow?"

"Yeah," she called back, giving a small wave. He waved back. She ducked out the door into the hallway, then out into the courtyard. Walking slowly to the student parking lot, to her car, she smiled wistfully to herself. The affection that had once been a mere obsession, a vague interest in him, was already something a little bit more, although she still feared a repeat of the past. His or hers, it was irrelevant; in the end, they were essentially the same. It was like Jonathan Edwards' metaphorical string, upon which humans dangled over hell; so were the spiders of her past dangled over her, threatening to be cut by God or by her situation at any moment and released upon her head. And yet, hardly a piece of her could care. Jack was strange, but he liked her; perhaps more than he should have, but something in him was irresistible to her too. She found her fondness for him growing at every moment. He made her uncomfortable and frenzied, yes, but in a way that was exhilarating, not tiring or perturbing. As the cool fall air filled her lungs, Claire realized that her attraction to him was growing exponentially now — much faster than before — but that, by some bizarre circumstance, she wasn't the least bit bothered by that.


	2. Second Opinion

"I think I hate him, Mac," she sighed, throwing herself into the chair in front of his desk. "He's so arrogant."

He looked up from his casebook and smiled at her. "Don't be dramatic, Claire."

Miffed, she shot up in her seat and gave him an angry, reproachful glare. Laughing heartily, he marked his page with a scrap of paper and shut his casebook. He leaned across the desk towards her, folding his hands sternly. "It's been what, Claire? Two days?"

"Yes, two very long days."

Two days she wouldn't repeat for all the money in the world. For the best position at any law firm anywhere. For the office of the district attorney. To be the highest paid attorney any place. She would not repeat those two days for anything anyone could offer her. They had been two days filled with arguments and condescending remarks and hurt feelings. She had nearly stormed out twice, been provoked innumerable times, and was already so sick of his voice — that commandeering, pretentious voice — that she could not remember for the life of her why she had ever been intrigued by him. In those two days, all appreciation for Jack McCoy had evaporated off her skin and been replaced with an intense inner loathing.

Mac just shook his head, still smiling amusedly, looking down and doodling on his desk calendar. Claire sighed; he would never have entreated her complaints about his colleague anyway. She pursed her lips, thinking about her relationship with Mac: not quite like friends, nor quite like father and daughter — she supposed they were something like an uncle and a niece. That seemed right to her. Mac had met her and her mother at an unfortunate time and had just stuck. He'd been part of the reason she went to Columbia; she'd considered Harvard Law, and the prestige that came with it, but he kept her in New York City somehow. Perhaps because when he inserted himself into her life, she had needed him. She still needed him. He stood in a void she would always be trying to fill; he couldn't fill it — no one ever could — but he occupied some space in it, a little piece of goodness and reality in the dark.

"Claire?" She flinched and realized she'd been staring off. He always noticed when she was distracted or upset or nervous. That was another product of his timed entrance into her life. He had grown to recognize those emotions easily, since when he had first met her, she was always that way. "Everything alright?"

"I hate him," she murmured limply, sighing and leaning back in her chair.

"Claire..." God, she wanted him to stop saying her name. She turned her head away, forcing herself to stare out the window. This was Mac's cue to stop. She was not in the mood for a sermon or a scolding; she needed peace and lots of it. He exhaled and breathed a little laugh, turning his head the opposite way from her. After a good moment's silence, she looked at him. He was still staring off at his door and the backwards engraved name on it: Dr. Mac Geller. Suddenly, through the quiet, he spoke. "How's your mother?" She jumped. He turned.

"I — " She was flustered and startled. "I, um, haven't spoken to her in a while."

His eyes narrowed. "How long?"

"Well..."

"Claire."

"Since my last visit." That was months ago. It was October and she had not spoken to or seen her mother since... July? Yes, July. For Claire's birthday. Claire admitted she could have called but blamed the distance on her mother; Jill could have called too. And she had more free time than Claire and more time to think of her. Her mother did nothing but eat, drink, and talk, how hard could it be to call her daughter, who she knew was busy? Claire refused the blame on this issue; she would not make all the effort. If her mother cared to talk, she would have called.

"Claire!" Mac exclaimed. He frowned at her. "Your mother — "

"She could have called me, Mac," Claire interrupted, "she has my phone number." He shook his head. "Anyway, we don't have much to talk about." Mac's frown dissipated at this, his face turning into a pout of pity. She didn't want that; she didn't want to see that.

"She's worried about you," he said earnestly, immediately betraying his intentions. He had seen her mother recently, of course he had. He wasn't asking how her mother was: he wanted to entice her into calling her mother. She stiffened visibly.

"You would know," she spat back, crossing her arms. Claire felt childish arguing with Mac. He always made her feel so young, so ignorant, so vain. He sighed and stood, wandering over to his bookshelf. Aimlessly, he ran his fingers across the bindings of the books and, with his back to her, shook his head disappointedly.

"Claire, you can't ignore what happened. You have to deal with it."

"I am dealing with it!" she nearly shouted and he wheeled around to face her. He was visibly startled; Claire hardly ever raised her voice. She rose defensively, dropping her arms to her sides and balling her fists. "I am dealing with it," she repeated cooly, in a level voice. "Very well."

"Clearly," he replied acerbically, raising his eyebrows questioningly and glancing at the door again. After a moment, he broke away and sat behind his desk. Following him with her eyes, Claire sat as he did, petulant and wounded in her silence. "So," he started, his tone taking on its usual hint of levity, "you're not a fan of Jack McCoy."

She didn't want to have that conversation with Mac anymore. She didn't want to have any conversation with Mac anymore. She didn't respond and once more he sighed.

"He — " She stopped and sighed. Everything was so tiring. Mac's condescension, Jack's arrogance, Margot's whispering, her mother's vanity and inability to do anything. Claire was so tired and she wanted to talk to — but that wasn't possible. She would have to settle for passing judgment with Mac. "He's a son of a bitch." The words slid off her tongue easily, slippery with their truth, but something about them felt wrong, unfair. She didn't like their taste in her mouth or their scent in the air. Mac laughed at that. "Sometimes, I wonder how he still has a job, but then I remember: he's good, that's how," she sighed, rubbing her brow tiredly. "What I don't get is why isn't he in a courtroom? You'd think a man like that would be too proud to do something so... meager as teaching."

"Oh, gee, thanks, Claire," snorted Mac. "He was, for a while, but as far as I know, his theatrics got him cited for contempt one too many times and he ended up in the trash pile with the rest of us."

"What an optimist you are," she stated dryly, smirking at him. Making a face, she stood, pulling her bag onto her shoulder. "I should go. I'm late meeting someone." She wasn't late yet — not even close — and even if she had been, Margot would have waited. But Mac was a trigger right now, liable to ask her any minute about things she had no desire to talk about.

"Call your mother sometime." It sounded sweet, kind, but Claire knew it was anything but that. It was almost like an order, and one she had no intention of following. She shrugged and, without glancing at Mac, slipped out of the room. Furtively, she looked around and darted down the nearest flight of stairs, desperate to avoid Jack, lest he turn down the hall or exit his office — only several doors away. Her hands cramped and coiled into fists at the thought of him and, though she was not naturally impulsive, she was not entirely sure that she could control herself or her emotions around him, after talking to Mac. He always made her hypersensitive, ran her high with guilt and depression. But she couldn't leave him. He was an integral part of her life, of that hole, and she was perpetually afraid she would break open with grief without him. Still, he hurt her; unintentionally, always, but he did. So she kept running down the stairs, away from Mac, possibly away from Jack, towards Margot. Faithful Margot. She always had the right words.

* * *

"So, Claire," said Margot Bell, absolutely failing at suppressing a grin. "How's it with Dr. Jack McCoy?" She sipped daintily at her coffee, her eyebrows arched expectantly, and then giggled softly, her light brown hair dancing bouncily as she leaned forward to put down her coffee. Her blue eyes flashed up at her friend, standing across the small café table from her, as Claire draped her bag on the back of the rickety metal chair. Margot's smile slowly subsided as Claire lowered into the chair and heaved a weighty sigh. "Something wrong?"

"No, no, I was just talking to Mac," exhaled Claire, fingering the rim of the coffee mug in front of her. Somehow, though she'd left Mac's office early, she was late. She cursed herself for walking, instead of taking her car, but as driving was not at all relaxing and what she really wanted was some calm, she simply could not manage the drive or the traffic. Thus, Margot had been kind enough to order for her. It didn't matter, anyway: the coffee was still hot and Margot knew that Claire took her coffee strong and black. And never decaf. There was no point in decaffeinated coffee, she said. Her father had told her and taught her that. Her father. She cringed at the memory; everything was just too much today.

"Dr. Geller, huh?" Margot said, leaning back a little bit. Her lips were slightly pursed; she knew he was Claire's confidante, her friend, almost her family, not an advisor or a professor, and so the knowledge that she had met with him, and not someone else, kept Margot from asking anything more. "So Dr. McCoy," she pressed eagerly, sliding up towards her friend and propping her head in her hands. "Tell me everything."

"He's..." Claire faltered. She trusted Margot completely, but trust was not the issue. It was how to phrase how she felt that silenced her. Her veins tingled with a sense of spite and anger towards Jack, and hate itched her fingertips, making her shiver at the thought of him. Loathing was a word for it, but it was too strong and then again, hardly strong enough. He tested her. Truly, in every sense, he tested her and her patience and her opinions. She snarled at his demeaning vocabulary and the haughty epigrams that spewed from his mouth. Like acidic bile they tore through her ears and the grey matter between them, creating sensations of shame. "It's interesting, I guess."

"Oh, come on, Claire, you really think I'm going to buy that bullshit?"

"There's really not much to say, Margot," she sighed, spinning her coffee cup around in its saucer. "He's kind of an asshole." The words were out before she knew she said them; she could only tell that they'd slipped from her by how suddenly she felt so nervous and afraid, as if he could hear her, as if she was gossiping about him and he would fight back like other girls, with venom and personal attacks.

"Wow, wasn't expecting that," Margot chuckled, taking a sip of her coffee. "Well, you know what they say, Claire, you can't judge a book by its cover. Maybe he'll change."

"I've been with him for two days; I think that qualifies as the prologue at least!"

"Touché," laughed Margot. "Give it time, though. He's probably just testing you out."

"For what?" It was an earnest question. Was he testing her brain or... or other parts of her? Jack McCoy was infamous for two things: his active lectures and his active libido. Claire hoped he was trying her for the first reason, and not the second. She'd already given him an ultimatum when he had made the proposal, and he had agreed to be professional, but that in no way comforted her. She was insecure in her hope that Jack wanted her as an teaching assistant and not to assist in other departments. He gave her a hard time, whatever his reasons, with his chastisements and his meticulous corrections and his overbearing arrogance. Comfort lay only in her certainty that, at this point, with her particular impression of his personality, nothing could ever have compelled her to sleep with him.

"You're a new assistant, Claire, he wants to know what you can do." Still too ambiguous. "You've never been with another teacher before."

"Margot, please put that in some sort of school context," Claire pleaded mildly. "When you say it like that — "

"So that's what this is about. You're worried about him coming on to you."

"Wouldn't you be?"

"Claire, we are women, which to some bigoted people still means we don't have any actual rights. But luckily, you and I and the state of New York are all able to recognize that we have the right to say no to a man. Plus, I don't think Jack McCoy is your regular street rapist. I doubt he's going to force himself onto you," she stopped and downed the last of her coffee. "As frightening as he is."

"Thanks, Margot, that was uplifting and supportive," Claire replied sarcastically, finishing up her coffee as well.

Margot sighed and pulled her purse off the back of her chair. "Claire," she said firmly as she rummaged through her bag, "you're being paranoid. He isn't an animal. He has boundaries. I don't know what you're so worried about."

Another Joel Thayer is what I'm worried about, Claire thought, biting her lip. "Alright, so I'm overreacting," she conceded, pretending to be defeated. It was completely untrue, but she wanted to appease Margot and end the argument. It was fairly clear that neither Margot nor Mac had enough insight into Claire's past experiences with men to properly sympathize with her distress, but since it was knowledge she was too ashamed to share, she felt herself compromising with and lying to everyone. It was an unhealthy habit — it was a habit now, compulsive and instinctive — but necessary to her pride, and so she kept at it.

"Yes, you're overreacting," Margot repeated back to her, pulling out her car keys. "You done?" Claire nodded. "You have your car?"

"No, I need to go back to the school, I left my car there."

"You walked? From Columbia? Claire, that's over three miles." Claire shrugged. "I can give you a ride. Come on." Grabbing her bag off the back of her chair, Claire followed Margot out of the coffee shop and down a couple blocks, where they found and clambered into Margot's old black car, carelessly tossing their bags into the backseat. "So, still on for that party tonight? Everyone's gonna be there." Margot grinned at her friend and arched an eyebrow. Claire laughed at the face.

"Sure," she replied, putting on her seatbelt and rolling down her window as Margot started up the car. The engine groaned as it came to life, angry at having its nap ended so soon. Claire eagerly pushed Jack McCoy out of her mind and thought about the prospect of a party. So caught up in self-pity and hatred, she'd forgotten of her weekend plans, with Margot and their friends. A cool wave of joy immediately crashed over her. Despite the annoyance that Jack presented, Claire realized she needed no validation from him. Smiling, she let the wind ravage her and reminded herself that his approval had no importance.


	3. Dig and Be Dug In Return

"Son of a bitch," slurred Rey, draped over Lennie's shoulders, which were shaking with laughter. Claire giggled endlessly. Jamie snickered and punched him in the arm, and he shot up. Immediately, he tilted backwards and began to fall until Lennie caught his arm and stabilized him. "Son of a bitch, Jamie!"

"S-sorry," she replied, still laughing, exchanging grins with Claire and Lennie. Rey was clinging to him and was retching; finally, after several seconds he stopped, nothing coming up. Lennie sighed exasperatedly and pulled his friend up to face him.

"Hey, Rey, get it together," he shouted over the music, giving him a little shove. Rey stumbled back into Claire's open arms.

"Maybe you should sit," she said into his ear. He nodded and, with a gentle push, she sent him out of the crowded sitting room-turned-dance floor. His feet shuffling against the cheap rug in the living room was lost against the pounding music, the raucous cheering, and the drunken shouting. As she turned back to Lennie and Jamie to talk or dance or anything — they were too drunk to know what — Mike and Liz appeared beside them, juggling an array of alcoholic beverages. There were two flasks of vodka, some beers, a bottle of wine, and a bottle of scotch, cheap stuff.

"Smorgasbord?" Liz grinned at them and waved the bottle of wine and a few plastic cups with an arching of her expertly trimmed eyebrows. The three of them nodded and pushed their way out of the mass of bodies, to the hauntingly steep stairs of the narrow New York City townhouse.

"What'd you guys give Rey?" asked Mike as they filed up the tight stairs. "He doesn't look too great."

"I gave him one vodka rocks and three-quarters of a beer and he's drunk off his ass," Lennie replied smartly. "What is he, a boy scout? Does he even drink?"

"You should know, Lennie, he's your friend," said Claire, grasping at the railing on the stairs to pull herself up to the landing. They darted into an empty bedroom off the head of the stairs, shutting the door behind them and putting on a single dim lamp. Clambering across the queen size bed, they all formed a lopsided circle on the far side of the room and set about to opening the alcohol.

"Hey, I brought him along because you said it'd be fun," Lennie protested, dropping down next to Claire. "Plus, he's my partner, not my friend. Speaking of partners, Mike, where's Profaci?" Mike shrugged, popping open a beer and passing it left to Liz, who handed it off to Lennie. Bottles and cups were scattered in the middle of the circle and eager fingers reached at the goods, until everyone had some vice in their hands. Lennie had a flask of vodka and a beer, Jamie had the wine and was pouring some for Liz, who had the other flask of vodka and was sharing it with Mike, who had the rest of the beer. Claire ended up alone with the bottle of scotch and a cup, which pleased her and was certainly more than enough.

"Making himself scarce, who knows. Chasing an Italian girl." They all laughed at that.

"Come to think of it, we lost about half of the party, didn't we?" Jamie took a sip of the wine before continuing. "Margot, Paul, Profaci, Rey... Am I missing anyone?"

"Rodgers," choked Lennie through a shot of vodka. "And Anita." The group uttered sporadic drunken sighs as a reply. They sat there, together, for several minutes, calmly drinking — though they were all already drunk — and laughing, mainly about Rey's alcohol intolerance, when the door opened and Paul stumbled in with a slurred "hey," grasping on the twisting golden doorknob for support.

"Hey, Paul," Claire called, propping herself up on the bed to get a look at their friend in the doorway. "Want a drink?"

"Only if you come downstairs," he responded, somewhat stubbornly, but he was firm. "Party's lacking without you guys."

"You can stay with us up here."

"Nah, Claire, that's where the music is."

"I could dance again," offered Jamie and Lennie shrugged, moving his head up and down in a slow, constant, endless nod.

"Sure, Paul," Claire replied, stumbling up to standing, the effect of the scotch punching her as her movements drove blood quickly through her veins. "I'll go. Coming with?" she turned to Lennie and Jamie, who pulled at the bed and pushed on the floor, to shakily make their way up. Lennie grabbed one of the vodka flasks, Claire kept a firm hold on the scotch, and Jamie corked the wine; then each crawled over the bed to the door, too drunk to think about going around it. Mike and Liz uttered a lame excuse of laziness or incapability that satisfied the others, if only because they were too intoxicated to care. One by one, they trotted out of the room and followed Paul back downstairs to the loud floor and crowded space.

With Paul in the lead, they headed towards the den in the back of the townhouse. There, the music was even louder, blaring in their ears from across the room and shaking their foundations. They moved in closer to the center of the space and the heart of the giant mass of people standing and dancing around. Laughing, they danced together in a group and went round robin with the bottles of alcohol, taking swigs and passing them along. After a couple minutes, they had been swept to the side by the crowd and danced lamely on the edge of the floor, tripping backwards into the dinner chairs that lined the walls. Lennie felt something on his shoulder and turned around to see Anita, grinning at him. She swiped the vodka from his fingers and took a swig, still smiling.

"Hey, Anita!" He laughed over the noise. "You see the kid? How is he?"

She shrugged. "He'll live. He didn't drink that much."

"I didn't think so." Lennie replied, grabbing the vodka and taking a shot. Anita pushed past him to get to Paul, who had the bottle of wine extended out to her. Still nodding his head up and down, Lennie stepped back and fell onto a chair, extorting snickers and giggles from his friends. "Yeah, so funny," he grumbled sarcastically, pulling himself up.

"You alright?" Anita asked, smirking and hardly concerned.

"Hey, you know me: _I play it cool, I dig all jive, that's the reason that I stay alive_."

"_My motto, as I live and learn, is dig and be dug in return_. You read Langston Hughes?"

"Yeah, sometimes," he shrugged one of his eternal, infamous shrugs and the girls snickered. "It works pretty well on girls from Riverside Park."

"It works pretty well on girls from Washington Heights," she responded, her smirk now a coy smile. Jamie uttered a soft, taunting 'ooh' and Claire laughed, grabbing ahold of Lennie's elbow.

"I don't think he's really your type, Anita," she giggled, kissing him on the cheek while he pouted playfully.

"You got that right," laughed Anita, grabbing the vodka from him again. "This, though, this is my type." She waved the bottle around and the group laughed in unison, passing the now-almost-empty bottles around for one last tour.

* * *

Their warm, alcohol-filled bodies pressed against the seats of the B line train of the subway as the new day slid over the city and the dark streets turned up a new breed of people, stumbling out of bars and clubs, to sustain the city's endless circulation. The subway's stops jostled them in an uncomfortable way; some clutched their stomachs, others moaned lightly as they grasped the cold metal poles, gripping them tightly with their fingers. Finally, though too long after the start of their trip, they arrived at 72nd street and pushed their way out of the station into the chilly fall night.

The walk to West 71st St. was entirely uneventful. No one spoke a word in their drunken stupor; the thrill of the night was starting to wane, filling them all with an itch of self-loathing and repulsion, as well as a natural nausea. Lennie was at the front of the sullen group, leading them towards the diner he had insisted upon visiting, after everyone had posthumously agreed that skipping dinner had been a terrible idea. Plunged into inebriated regret, they'd let him lead them from the people-filled townhouse on West 138th to Big Nick's Burger and Pizza Joint, where Lennie claimed they had "anything and everything you could want at one in the morning."

The restaurant was barren, except for a few lone men drinking coffee at the counter or at small tables, newspapers or documents in their hands, looking downcast and exhausted. Some had briefcases, one had a suitcase, and one had a cardboard box, brimming with white pages, that were scattered over his table amidst his coffee mug and a half-eaten piece of pecan pie. A fifty-something, bottle redheaded waitress waved them over to the biggest table, in the corner of the room, with a smile and a heavily-accented: "I'll be with you in a minute."

They shoved themselves, all eleven of them, into the round booth surrounding the table. The booth was large but they only just fit, with little to no elbow room between them. Luckily, most of them balked and nearly gagged at the idea of food — namely Rey, who had been challenging to convince that going anywhere but home after the party was worthwhile. The waitress approached and distributed the menus, rattling off the specials while the pairs of droopy eyes surveyed the food choices. Lennie asked for a moment, but hastily added that they all needed water.

"How do... eat," Rey blubbered and Rodgers snorted, while Profaci shoved him with his elbow. "What?"

"Just don't talk," Profaci grumbled, sticking his face a little further into the menu. Rey shifted away from him, looking affronted, and leaned a little bit on Jamie, who ignored him.

"Looks like kiddie Curtis doesn't know how to handle his alcohol," commented Rodgers, laughing, and the others chimed in, their loud voices ringing through the noiseless restaurants, eliciting glances and glares from the other patrons.

"Hey, c'mon," Rey said, pushing off of Jamie in an attempt to sit up, only to fall back against her, unable to maintain his balance.

"How did you walk here?" Lennie asked, shaking his head a little. "You're a mess, Rey."

Rey opened his mouth to protest but Jamie grabbed his arm and he stopped. He leaned forward to look at her; he noticed she was smirking. "Don't argue with that," she said gently. He closed his mouth and slumped back into the seat, snarling indignantly.

Mike immediately turned the group away from Rey's embarrassing state, with his voice rising up through the others' as he put down his menu and said: "Where'd you go off to Rodgers?"

She shrugged. "Oh, you know, around and about, Mike."

He smiled knowingly. "Profaci?"

"Girls, Mikey. They had some nice girls at that party." Profaci was grinning; if there was a ladies' man amongst them, it was him. Mike had the potential, with his chiseled Irish face, as did Lennie, with his banter, his wit, and his charm, but Tony Profaci held the title. He had that old New York Italian family air about him, he had the jokes and the face and black hair that party girls loved to run their shaking fingers through. And he, unlike the others, wasn't tied down by a full-time girl or a loyalty to friends — he ran out on them throughout the night, which outsiders thought should have been a slight, but it wasn't. At the end of the night, he'd be back with them, and never with the unwanted "guest of the night" by his side, like so many other wanderers and ladies' men. He only brought with him stories of his adventure, anecdotes about the assortments of women he had met. Profaci's company wasn't essential or even expected: it was a courtesy. However, despite his roaming and distance during social events, he was a constant and familiar face, a favorite friend. It was as if no night was complete without his absence from them, but presence at the party.

"Of course," Jamie replied. "There are nice girls at every party, isn't that right, Tony?" The group snickered collectively and Profaci's grin widened as he nodded in agreement. The waitress returned and they all fumbled out their orders, some for coffee or a soda, others ordered breakfast or another meal — all except for Rey, who refused anything but the cold glass of water in front of him. Their waitress, predictably known as Deborah or Debbie, something with a D, as declared by her large name tag, snapped her gum and collected their menus, tucking her frayed and yellowed order pad into the front of her apron, before trotting away to the kitchen.

Exhausted and still very drunk, they sat silently, sipping at their waters, until Deborah or Debbie returned, with their coffees and sodas. They each mumbled an emotionally void "thank you" or "thanks" before taking gulps of whatever they had ordered. After the waitress had left again, with a promise that their food would be out "in a little while," they stayed, sitting in their absence of words, struggling to slurp down their liquids. Eventually, the soft, acoustic jazz music lilting over the ceiling speakers changed, to something airy and light. Lennie perked up at the sound and the others eyed him carefully; a smile spread over his lips and their brows furrowed. Grandiosely, he pulled one of Claire's hands from her cup of coffee and held it lightly in his. She started slightly and opened her mouth, as the song gained momentum and a famous, familiar voice broke through the strings. She laughed as Lennie's tongue sang the song to her, perfectly, on time, on pitch, every word from his mouth the same as the lyrics playing overhead.

"Frank Sinatra?" It was a question, but she knew the answer. He didn't need to reply — and he wouldn't, he was far too engrossed in his own singing. Lennie had an old soul; his music library was a mess of songs by swing singers, jazz musicians, and anything reminiscent of Sinatra or the Rat Pack. Entranced, he swayed slightly, from side to side, and the others giggled and twisted their faces amusedly, while Claire played along, feigning a regal, dignified air, placing a hand lightly against her chest and smiling graciously.

As the song swept up into its final throes, Lennie's performance increased in intensity and foolishness. "_As long as I've got arms that cling at all, it's you I'll be clinging to..._" He clutched her hand harder and she broke from her façade and laughed again. "_And all the dreams I dreamed, begged, or borrowed on some bright tomorrow will all come true... And all my bright tomorrows belong to you._" The table burst into applause and cheers, sprinkled with laughter. Claire leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, squeezing his hand while little hushed laughs broke from behind her smile. Lennie returned the kiss and took a sip of his coffee, dropping her hand, a little bit reluctantly. She leaned her head on his shoulder and sighed happily.

"You should quit the police training academy, Lennie," she said jokingly. "And go into acting. Work on Broadway. You're talented."

"Right, and give up this well-paying career I've spent time training for?" He replied sarcastically. "You're crazy, Claire."

Anita snorted and glanced at Mike, who repeated, somewhat bitterly: "Well-paying career."

"Well, we can't all be attorneys," Jamie said, and Claire laughed.

"The way we're going, Jamie, we're not destined for much better." Claire played with her coffee cup. Funny how she did that so often now. "Criminal prosecutors. What's that... Seventy thousand a year? If that."

Margot scoffed. "If that. If you're lucky and get promoted three times within a year."

"Let's not talk about our futures right now," interjected Anita, leaning forward on the table. "It's too good of a night to be depressed about what none of us are gonna have." Heads bobbed up and down, concurrent yeses around the table. Paul, after his lengthy silence, took a calculated sip of coffee and glanced right, at Profaci.

"So, tell us about tonight's girls, Tony."

Profaci gladly started at this suggestion. "Well, there was this exchange student from NYU — said she was from Sweden — her name was Olga or Ingrid or Pippi Longstocking, something like that — " The table burst into a short round of laughter, while he broke into a smile. "Anyway, Pippi or whoever she was is pretty good at handling her vodka... I guess that's what you learn in Sweden." More laughter. "We played a shots game and she told me a lot about Europe and her cat, whose name I do remember — this girl named her cat — " Drifting off from the story, Claire trained her eyes on the door; the speckles and spatters of men had slowly begun to leave, one by one, throughout their stay. Eventually, the last one had ducked through the doorway, leaving them the only patrons in the restaurant. However, her relaxed breathing halted abruptly as a familiar figure appeared in the doorway. She shot up, off of Lennie's shoulder, and the table fell silent, staring at her as she watched the man moving towards the counter. He was utterly oblivious of her or of her company; he ordered a coffee and sat alone, dropping his briefcase on the counter. The table glanced back between her and the man, utterly confused, save Margot and Jamie, who knew instantaneously who he was.

"Claire," hissed Margot, leaning over and whispering in her ear. Claire started, snapping her eyes off of the familiar shape of Jack McCoy and forcing them onto her coffee cup, too nervous to look up.

"Is... everything okay?" Through her veil of anxiety and fear, she had no idea whose voice had asked her. She nodded vehemently and muttered an emotionless "go on" through lips that had suddenly become dry. Profaci, after pausing a moment, continued with his story and the laughter and voices built up around her as she sat, motionless, staring down at the table, unable to hear or comprehend. The food arrived and she looked up only to smile at waitress and take her plate, looking away as soon as possible. His presence ruined her mood, but more than that, it scared her. This was the last way that she wanted him to see her. Drunk, dressed so revealingly that she was hardly dressed at all, devouring breakfast at two in the morning. She knew inwardly that he wouldn't have objected, as other professors would, to her behavior or her social activities, but somehow this made his finding-out all the more daunting and unwanted. His infallible ability to respect her, no matter her actions, was something she had no desire to test. Claire wanted to maintain forever perfect in his eyes, so that she might always have the upper hand and never be ashamed of herself. Nibbling at her food, she tried to ignore that the other would occasionally stop and stare at her, not all at once, but in turns, with concerned frowns and confused brows.

"Hey, Claire." The voice from her right provoked her and she swiveled about, nearly crashing heads with Lennie, who had been leaning towards her and talking into her ear. It was his voice that had summoned her. "The salt?" She nodded, unable to speak, reaching hastily and messily for the salt beside her and swinging it back around to her friend. He stared at her blankly, puzzled, then thanked her and turned away, shaking his head slightly.

As she chewed on measured pieces of her mushroom and onion omelette, she found herself ignoring the table's conversation and instead listening to the music playing in the background. She heard a soft jazz piano, which she assumed was probably Bill Evans, and a song that was definitely from a Broadway musical, although not one she knew or had heard of. She had drifted into a state of oblivion, a sort of trance, until a song she recognized came on and she froze, reality swimming back swiftly. The sound of horns echoed through her brain and as they ran through her, she could only think that it must have been some cheap joke, that they would play more Frank Sinatra. Beside her, Lennie burst again into song, and the others once more into laughter.

"_Start spreading the news!_" He was unreal. She wanted to be mortified, she could feel the sensation swelling up, but he was too infectious. She grinned madly back at him. "_I'm leaving today! I want to be a part of it, New York, New York._" He had flung his arms out, nearly hitting Liz in the face, and Claire was laughing and couldn't stop. Lennie had drawn her back to the fun, to the moment, to the joy and comfort of friends and food and being completely trashed. "_I'll make a brand new start of it —_"

"_In old New Yooooork!_" She chimed in and they all laughed, as the music rose and gained intensity above them. They chatted briefly while the song reached its climax, and then all broke out singing a song they had heard so many times, in each other's apartments, in department stores, on television, in restaurants classier and crappier than their current choice.

"_These little town bluuues aaaare melting awayyyyy..._" Arms were wrapping around shoulders and the group swayed in unison. "_I'm gonna make a brand new star of it, in ol' New York..._" Even Rey had joined in, a beat behind the rest. "_Aaaaand if I can make it there, I'm gonna make it anywhere! It's up to you, New York, New Yooooork!_" Alone, Lennie belted out the last "_New York_" and they all cheered and clapped, alone but together in their ridiculous stupor. Laughs passed around the table as the song slipped into another and they went back to their meals. All were considerably excited by the ordeal and Rey even raised his hand and asked for a menu, able to manage his request and a slurred apology for his "difficulty." Deborah or Debbie insisted it was no issue, and promptly brought him a menu that he perused rather loudly, to the annoyance of Profaci, who elbowed him repeatedly.

Still drenched in high spirits, Claire was taken by surprise when Margot leaned over and whispered, "Claire, you should go talk to Dr. McCoy." She shook her head but Lennie had overheard and insisted that she explain who "the man" was.

"He's one of our professors," Margot replied. "Claire's his assistant—"

"Margot!" Claire was hissing; it was unattractive and rude, but her comportment was of little concern at the moment. "Stop."

"Assistant?" Lennie asked, arching an eyebrow suggestively. Great. She'd only told Margot and Jamie; she hadn't been given the opportunity to mention it to anyone else. Well, that wasn't necessarily true: she'd had the opportunity, but still stinging from Jack's arrogance and childish treatment of her, she hadn't wanted to share the information. Lennie was still looking at her suspiciously and she elbowed Margot viciously in the side, who sputtered and let out a loud, surprised "ow!"

"It's not like that — we're not—"

"But he has a history!" offered Margot, earning her another bruise.

"A history," repeated Lennie, sounding upset and dissatisfied.

"Lennie, I'm not sleeping with him. I promise. I've been working with him for," she paused to shoot an angry glance at Margot, "two days. Only two days."

Lennie's frown broke into a grin and she realized, too late, that he'd been playing. "Claire, who you sleep with doesn't affect me, unless it's me." Affronted, she shoved at and slapped his arm. "Hey!" She ignored his protests and turned away, staring straight across the table, refusing to look at either friend beside her. They vied for attention, begged playfully for mercy and forgiveness, but she brushed them off jokingly, until they had finished eating and began to pull out their wallets, to hoist their purses up onto the crowded table. They compiled their money and handed it to the waitress, telling her to keep the change, an instruction that made her smile and thank them. They slipped out of the booth, splitting sides, Claire following Lennie out, grabbing his hand for support as she struggled to stand in her heels. Her blithe mood faltered as the group came together and headed for the door; Jack McCoy was still seated at the counter, sipping at what must have been his third cup of coffee, papers strewn about him. She buried herself between Jamie and Lennie, with him closest to the counter to block her from Jack's sights. By some means, though she was buried in a crowd of people and though she remained completely silent, the face at the counter turned towards her and the voice from its lips called her name. "Claire."

The entire group stopped in its tracks. She cringed. Looking back at the faces, once again lined with perplexity, she smiled. "Hey, wait for me outside, okay?" Several heads nodded and an array of voices replied with "okay," turning away from her hesitantly and filing out of the glass door to the dark street. Claire glanced at Jack and at the counter and at the door, trying not to breathe too heavily; after a pause, she sat down beside him and mustered a frail smile. Hoping he wouldn't notice her shifting, she struggled to pull down her skirt. "How are you?" she asked forcibly. He twisted his mouth into a slight frown and shrugged.

"No better or worse than earlier today."

She wanted to growl at him. Couldn't he speak straight? Say something that meant real sense? He was always peppering her with epithets and sentences that sounded so simple but sent her for a whirl, never really answering anything she asked. She bit her lip and nodded. Was there something he wanted to ask her? Or that he wanted her to say? He sipped at his coffee and she pleaded internally that he would say something, anything, even if it meant propositioning her. She'd have accepted anything but silence.

"Sinatra fan, huh?" He finally commented. She'd been hoping for a more final statement, not just an observation. She sighed.

"Not really. Lennie is, though." Claire hardly registered his face; eventually it crossed her that he was confused. "My friend."

Jack nodded and drank his coffee. A sarcastic _"expert explanation, Claire"_ lingered beneath the surface of his expression and she could hit herself, she could hit him. Eventually, she breathed out a soft "yeah" and continued to watch him anxiously, waiting for some sort of comment about her behavior or her friends, anything he could easily judge. She wondered, self-consciously, how long he had known she was there, how long he might of watched her. The urge to punch him grew viciously fast. "I'm more a fan of sixties music," he said at last, eyeing her blankly.

"What, like Dylan?"

Jack smiled and she almost jumped, at that smile. It wasn't the first time he'd ever twisted his lips up at her, but every time it sent something undetectably desirable and nerve-wracking through her. Those lips had powers, she sensed, those lips and — she refrained, mentally blocked herself from thinking about other parts of his body. She wanted to squeeze her eyes shut and not see him, it certainly would have taken all thoughts about examining him out of her head. Pulling herself together, she twisted her fingers nervously, trying to check her watch discreetly, praying that her friends were still waiting. "Do you like Dylan?" The reappearance of his voice startled her, but she kept her head down.

"I'm into a little bit of everything." Claire was ashamed to confess that she had never developed a distinct music taste; she rode on the coattails of popularity and her friends' palates. The same applied for other arts; painting, theatre, dance, all were beyond her. Jack was nodding again and looked as though he was thinking. He opened his mouth, as if to ask another question, but then glanced behind her, through the window, and stopped.

"I think you need to go," he said. It sounded disappointed, reluctant and she furrowed her brow, confused, until she remembered her friends standing out in the dark and it clicked.

She mustered up another meek smile. "Probably."

"Are you busy Sunday?"

Her heart stopped. It was too soon for this to be happening. "No." Why hadn't she said yes. _Idiot_.

"I hope you don't mind spending it with me." _Oh God_. "I'm a bit behind on my research for my lecture for Monday. It'll just be a couple hours at the library."

Claire ached to refuse, go back on her words and say she had plans for the weekend, but there was no question in his voice, and thus nothing to refuse. Jack's voice rang with certainty and definiteness; it made her uncomfortable, that she felt as though she had no say, but a trip to the library was harmless. And she wasn't busy. "Sure, what time?"

"One." He finished his coffee. Wiping his mouth with a white paper napkin, he placed a ten dollar bill on the counter and stood up. She followed, shifting her purse on her shoulder and tugging at her skirt in what she hoped was a discreet manner. "Well, this saves me the trouble of email." She only nodded. Jack collected his papers and shoved them neatly into his briefcase. He headed towards the door and she trailed behind him, thanking him as he held it open for her. They stepped out into the night and were slammed by the cold, their heavy breaths coming out in puffs of white. He raised an eyebrow and looked down at her. "The library at one, Sunday?"

"I'll be there."

"See you then, Claire." Jack was dangerously close, as they'd brushed bodies in the small space of the doorway; they were standing less than a foot apart, a distance that did something to her, something she liked and hated synchronously.

Claire exhaled heavily, glad the freezing air gave her a good reason to shake. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight," he replied, his white breath brushing at her face. She blinked and he was backing away, still looking at her. With one last glance, he turned and made his way down the street from her. The eyes of bystanders, her friends, bore into her back; after a moment, Lennie came up beside her and touched her arm.

"Ready?" His voice was soft and gentle, as if he understood her. It was perturbing, how he knew the tones to use, the gestures, the motions, the touches that brought comfort and, conversely, those that brought pain. Claire nodded briefly and turned away, a counterfeit smile across her face.

"Post-game?" She asked, opening her arms and putting her palms up suggestively, as if the question rested on them.

"Mike's got some stuff back at his apartment," offered Liz, and a cheer erupted through them. They trotted back to the subway and clambered down into the station, joy bursting about them. Only as she settled into the irritating racket of the train did Claire realize she was clasping Lennie's arm and that her fingers, warm in her thick gloves, were shaking and would not stop. A chill spread from head to toe and dissipated exclusively at the thought of burying herself in the lap of liquor.


	4. You Were the One I Wanted To Know

Her throat was lined with lead as the heavy library doors swung back behind her. Nervously, she let her fingers trace the lining of her green winter coat; this October was proving a bitter one. She glanced around; the library was quiet and barren, peppered with a few men in white button down shirts, who poured over casebooks and furiously took down notes on their worn yellow legal pads. They had briefcases and glasses, wrinkles and bags under the eyes, a warning, an omen of a thanklessly tiring career to come. Silence carried over the wide space and heavy wooden shelves. A pair of cold blue eyes glanced up at her and stayed there; she soon recognized the man as another law professor and offered a bleak smile. He reciprocated, after a long pause, still keeping his icy gaze on her. She started to walk, slipping away, and he went back to his work; his endless stare left her breathing ragged.

Jack was at a back table, a few unopened books stacked next to him and a legal pad, already somewhat scribbled with notes, lying in front of him. His eyebrows shot up at the sight of her and he smiled. Moving slowly, hesitantly, she put her bag down on one of the chairs and pulled off her coat, draping it over the chair. She sat across from him gingerly and watched him, as he observed her, his expression unreadable. It was perturbing. Her fingers shook continuously as she pulled off her gloves — and they had been, since their encounter Friday night — and not with cold, but with some deep unspoken shame and embarrassment, that made looking into his face nearly impossible. Claire could not raise her eyes above his neck and the loose collar of his own white button down and the red patterned tie that rested there. In the distance, she heard herself clear her throat as his hand dragged one book off of the stack and slid it over to her.

"Claire?" Her eyes shot up, unintentionally, and she instantly regretted it. Jack's face was lined with genuine concern and it twisted her lungs, squeezing the air from her body. Her throat grew drier and her hands shook with a greater, more noticeable ferocity. She snatched the book and flipped it open haphazardly.

"Fine," she squeaked, looking away. She could feel him frown and her eyes closed, pained. He hadn't asked her a question.

"Are you?" The question was gentle; it startled her. His voice carried a softness, a tenderness, an emotion she had never heard or seen him express. It was terrifying, his kindness; immediately she was gagged with a desire for his anger or his arrogance, not sweetness that made her skin crawl with affection. Her lips tingled with the idea of his, how they would taste as she took the compassion off of them. Lost in his sympathy, Claire neglected to notice that his hand was resting on her arm, and he was leaning towards her, saying her name in a low tone. She spun around, recklessly, and their heads nearly collided. She inhaled sharply.

"I—" Her words were tied to her tongue, inescapable. "I— I'm sorry."

Jack stared at her, his brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed. "Claire." She flinched. His words were still rolling in magnanimity, an understanding that should have soothed her, but tortured her with thoughts she repressed, habitually and unwillingly. It wasn't just that the emotion was oozing from Jack — though that did have some bearing on her fear — but that men as lovers had traditionally been so unkind, so empty and rough to her. Only her male friends had ever been charitable or courteous, but them she would never have dreamed of keeping a bed with. She had heroically pined to Margot about the indecency of men today, and now, the one man that had ridden her so high with anger was unlaying the bricks of her carefully constructed walls. It was ironic, but inspiring; she softened herself towards him, hoping his gentleness was a recurring trait. "Are you okay?" What a beautifully honest inquiry. She nodded. "Can we get to work?" He had become slightly more forceful, and the gentleness was strained, but it was still there, resilient to his impatience. Again, she nodded.

He had pulled another book from his stack and was reading it by the time she turned her eyes away. Left awkwardly without a task, she glanced down at the book, open to an irrelevant, arbitrary page. Something about extortion. She stifled a groan and took a deep breath, hoping that confidence would empower her as she took in the musty library air. "What am I supposed to be looking for?"

"Check the index. Look up _People of New York County vs. Haas._" Claire browsed the index briefly and turned to the appropriate page, skimming the paragraphs. They gave an in-depth account of the nature of the case and her stomach twisted at the details.

"Jack, what is this," she breathed, her voice a stunned whisper. She flipped forward a few pages. "It ended in a plea bargain. Why am I—"

"What do you see?"

"What?"

"What is on the page, Claire," he stated emphatically, looking up at her from his huddled position over his book. "What do you read?"

"Are you testing me?"

"Claire."

She sighed. "_Haas was accused of murder for perpetuating the sale of an organic cancer treatment that Haas claimed was a cure for the disease. Medical examiners and doctors found victim would have lived years longer had Haas not discouraged a mastectomy and/or chemotherapy._" Claire paused and read on silently. "The victim died of cancer, Jack. How was this even a viable case?"

"The legal approach to an issue or crime makes a difference."

"You're trying to teach me, aren't you," she uttered, quickly and bitterly. "I thought I was supposed to be helping you."

Jack shrugged. "There's nothing wrong with being mentored every once in a while, Claire. Plus, you'll need this information and knowledge to help me with the next seminar." His idea of their permanence, the concept that they'd be working together for the next two and a half years, resonated within her in strange tones. She shifted uncomfortably.

"I didn't give up a Sunday to be trained, Jack. I thought you wanted — I thought you need my help."

"There's no law that says you can't learn, Claire. You are just a student." It was a slap, those last words, he knew that. He had brought her to him, ascended her to his level, and was shooting her down. Bile was building behind her teeth.

"I wouldn't be so sure," she spat back quietly. "The legal approach makes a difference."

He paused, and then a slow smile spread across his face, a proud, arrogant smile. "What are you suggesting, larceny by extortion? I got you here under false pretenses?"

"Yes. You coerced me here under the guise of needing help, when in fact you wanted to hand down life lessons."

"What a crime," he muttered jokingly, shaking his head. Suddenly serious, he looked at her, then at the book spread open in front of her. "May we continue?" She gave a defeated sigh and nodded. Still, Claire frowned inwardly, annoyed by his show-off attitude. "In _People v. Haas_, the prosecutor charged the defendant with murder, correct?"

"Right, after it was determined that the patient—"

"The victim, Claire. She stopped being a patient when Dr. Haas failed to help her."

"Jack, that's a bit morbid."

"The doctors agreed that Ann Bennett would have lived for at least _six more years_ if she'd never met the doctor!" Jack's voice was rising slowly, and angry eyes began to focus on them. "Dr. Haas showed a reckless disregard for human decency and life. She let her patients die believing she was curing them."

"And you're saying that those women should have been forced to undergo surgery instead?"

"If it would save their lives, yes."

"Jack, millions of people believe in homeopathic and holistic medicine. Are they all wrong?" Claire paused, watching him carefully. He was tense, provoked, and she sighed. "Are they all stupid?"

"Those who die needlessly, yes."

"And you're qualified to make that assessment?" He shrugged, twisting his face into an expression that displayed how clearly he was sure of himself. Claire shivered a bit, her blood rising with defensive anger. "Well, I happen to find it a little bit intrusive," she declared, crossing her arms and staring at Jack sternly. "The government telling a woman she has to have surgery."

Jack's face twisted into a self-satisfied smirk. "This," he said, laying his index finger on the book in front of her, "is not a privacy issue."

"Of course it's not," Claire replied, feigning agreement, her tone laced with light sarcasm. "Constitutional issues are defined by men."

He opened his mouth to speak and stopped, appalled. A short, breathy laugh escaped him and he pulled off his tie from around his neck, throwing it onto the chair next to him. His words came out quietly, calmly, but his manner was condescending; he leaned towards her and Claire was somewhat repulsed. "I don't think this is the time or the place for a full-blown debate about your latent feminism."

Her brain surged forward with words, with arguments and angry statements to fling in his face. "Number one," she said, equally cool but maintaining a subtle viciousness to her tone, "it's not latent." She hesitated, observing him. "Number two, since when did privacy become a feminist issue?" Jack sighed and pulled back, looking away fleetingly. "Go to the movies, read a book, open a magazine! Maybe you'll see why these women — women like the victim — don't want to get a breast lobbed off."

His next words came out, but hardly. They were empty, devoid of emotion, and hit her in the face with full forced. At their low volume, they drifted across the small table to her and into her ears, prodding her brain with fury. "I think you're overreacting."

"Really?" Her sarcasm and rage were growing clearer. "Is that why the Bombshell bra is the number one selling product on the market?" Jack shook his head. "Society forces women to seek out people like that, who offer alternatives to becoming a metaphorical leper, Jack."

"You're right," he said, after sitting in silence for several moments. "All men are pigs." His mocking tone sent a shock through her, that fragmented her self-control, nibbled at her nervous system. She twitched and leaned towards him, her voice rising several decibels, beyond the acceptable library standard.

"That's not what I'm saying, and you know it."

"You'd have liked it a lot better if it'd been a male doctor, wouldn't you? You'd be the first one out there with the tar and feathers." He was laughing at her, provoking her. A shudder ran over her.

"Jack—" Caution seeped from her voice; he was drowning her in loathing.

"But a woman, actually taking advantage of other women... That one doesn't show up in the collective works of Betty Friedan." She slammed the book closed and stood up, her hard wooden chair scraping back in a noisy, disruptive manner. Eyes from all over, from tables, from the stacks, turned towards them. Jack remained smug, but also angry and tense; they had split each other's nerves, her by surprising him, him by insulting her. It was disgusting, they were disgusting. She sat down tersely, pushing the book away from her.

"Can we work now," she responded forcibly, squaring her jaw.

Jack nodded and handed her another book from the pile, instructing her to find some Rehnquist decisions that contradicted other case resolutions. She flipped open the cover and skimmed the index, ignoring him completely. They worked in silence for an hour, maybe two, exchanging only the words necessary, passing notes taken from books. Every so often he gave a research request that she would unenthusiastically pursue, refusing to soften her challenging demeanor. At long last, he shut his book and began to put away his notes; assuming it was safe to stop, Claire followed. She handed him her pages and he filed them in his bag with a muffled "thank you." She remained immobile in her seat, her pen still resting in her fingers, drifting above the table. He stood, pulling his bag with him, and grabbing his coat from the back of the adjacent chair. Staring at her, sitting there, internally writhing with anger and bearing a face of extreme displeasure and bitterness, Jack sighed. "Can we go get a drink now?"

Claire froze. "A drink?" She repeated dumbly.

"Yes. At a bar. You and me. Getting a drink."

"I—" Her lips twitched anxiously. "It's a Sunday, Jack."

"I'll pay," he offered. If she hadn't known that Jack was naturally full of himself, she might have assumed that he was using his arrogance as a mask of desperation. She also knew that he had a straight mind, one that could, in some cases, only conceive the answer "yes." This was one of those cases, like when he had asked her to accompany him to the library a few nights ago. He had been sure then, and he was sure now, that she would say yes; in the moment, he was watching her blankly, in expectation of her getting up and taking up her things to follow him out of the library. A small sect of her wanted to refuse him, and never give him what he wanted, but his certainty was not forceful, nor did it feel unwelcome. It felt like him; with him, there was expectation that you fulfilled, or you were not good enough to be held in his respect. And still brimming with shame from Friday, Claire started at the idea of being respected by Jack McCoy and snatched her coat, gloves, and bag and hurried up out of her chair.

"I know a bar a little ways across the city," he said nonchalantly, holding open the library door. "But it's a nice bar."

"Not just a dive?" He shook his head in response. Staring at him, and relaxing again, no longer reeling in anger at his bigoted mockery, she exhaled, her breath coming up in white puffs. The day was greying already, beginning to ache with the coming of the evening, though it was still the afternoon. Jack was wrapped in a coat that looked helplessly old and worn, and a hat that bore the same history. Claire bit her lip, thinking about other histories he had. She had spent the previous night on the internet, researching him, and the previous day at school, asking around. "By the way, I checked."

"On what?" As they stepped into the street, he turned his head to look at her, and she met his eyes, a small smile on her face.

"You've only had three female assistants." Three assistants who were lovers in the last twenty-four years at this school. Three out of three. In some way, he had sought to trick her, make her blind to the man he really was. But people and society were not immune to or ignorant of his exploits, and of course, most simply, all teaching assistants were recorded within the administration, for safety and logistic purposes. Claire's smile drifted off into a smirk.

Jack gazed at her admiringly and shrugged. "You were the one I wanted to know the truth," he said. Her gait slowed as they approached the subway entrance and she laughed lightly. Gently, he took her arm and lead her down into the station.


End file.
